


i'd trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday

by tangentiallly



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, mention of licking blood, mention of murder & attempt murder & arson, pre asoue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 01:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16800613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangentiallly/pseuds/tangentiallly
Summary: The memories were overwhelming and all over the place when he thought back into his past, but she was the one constant, always there. Annoying, mean, petty, rude, dramatic. Realer and more constant than anything else that just kept changing.





	i'd trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: I don't own asoue

Looking back, despite however Olaf had felt at that time, pushing Beatrice off the balcony wasn’t really the end of innocence, or the end of anything. It was just another incident along the road that added another item to the long list of dramatic things Beatrice had done (like … working wings at a masked ball … really, Beatrice?) Things had long gone off track at that point anyway, the night at the masked ball never really “started” anything.

If he thought about the night too much and too philosophically, he would perhaps recognized the relief he had when he realized she hadn’t actually died. While he would be the first to say he never liked her and hated her even more after discovering what happened at the opera night and that she had always annoyed him to no end, he also couldn’t deny there really wasn’t anyone else who knew him as well as she did. And yes, he hated that, and would love to get some revenge on her, but the world would not ever be the same with her gone.

Childhood and teenage years had been messy and ever-changing, getting into VFD, going on all sorts of missions to different places from deep forests and fancy cities, and acting in so many different theater roles. The memories were overwhelming and all over the place when he thought back into his past, but she was the one constant, always there. Annoying, mean, petty, rude, dramatic. Realer and more constant than anything else that just kept changing.

So, of course, Olaf usually chose not to think about the event and all the possible alternative outcomes of that night past the surface.

* * *

He climbed up her shoulders, finally reaching the high windows. He would grow up to be taller than her, but the age of twelve, she was the taller one. He fumbled around trying to unlock the window unsuccessfully while she hummed songs impatiently. “You’re horrible at picking locks,” she complained.

“I literally _just_ got up here,” he retorted, even though it was probably over ten minutes.

“No,” she huffed, “you’ve literally been up there for _hours_.”

They had learned what literally and figuratively meant last year. And then they both arrived at the conclusion that using “literally” in situations that didn’t actually literally fit was a good dramatic exercise and kept accusing the other person for stealing the idea.

He gave up and punched through the window, the glass shattering. Some pieces of glasses fell inside the store, but some fell outside, cutting both of them.

“Ugh, I think I’m bleeding,” he grimaced, “wait, what happens when I lick my own blood?”

“Nothing, probably,” Beatrice said thoughtfully, “on the other hand, if you lick mine, my smart cells would probably invade into you and be resisted by your cells because they’re not as smart as me, it’ll cause a war.”

“Excuse me, I’m the smarter one in this operation –” he said indignantly, midway of climbing inside.

“— or so you keep telling yourself –” she interrupted snidely.

“— I don’t just tell myself. I tell that to you too. I’m very generous.” He declared, finally getting in. Landing himself on a cabinet, he reached out his hand and she grabbed onto it easily and started climbing.

“We should probably get some bandages too,” she said, remembering suddenly that they were both bleeding a little.

He rolled his eyes, “Yeah sure, if we have leftover time. Don’t forget our priorities here, Beatrice. The lip balm.”

Later, when they finished picking all the things they wanted, Olaf said, “Whoever said window locks are easier to pick than door’s is a filthy liar.”

“Or you’re horrible at picking locks,” Beatrice pointed out. “Though of course those are not mutually exclusive. We should’ve just kicked through the glass door though if you were going to end up punching the window.”

“That’s far too easy for other people to see the next morning. We’re subtle people, remember?”

“If by subtle you mean, preferring elaborate schemes to simpler ones.”

“Of course that’s what I mean. Does it have any other meaning?”

* * *

They were nine, running across the Briny Beach, kicking sands at each other. He was supposed to be at his mansion today because his mom said the Duchess and her husband were bringing along their daughter for a social visit, which sounded boring. Sneaking out with Beatrice and taking the trolley to the beach and ruining castles Beatrice built sounded way more fun.

Well, Beatrice didn’t actually included the last one when she suggested that, but Olaf thought it was probably like, implied somewhere.

“Is she pretty?” Beatrice asked curiously about the Duchess’s daughter.

“Her hair is blonder than mine,” Olaf answered sullenly, like the presence of the other girl was a personal insult to him. 

Beatrice burst into laughter, sounding delighted. Olaf splashed the ocean water onto her angrily and she laughed harder. “I must meet her someday,” Beatrice said, grinning wide. Olaf tried pushing her down but she successfully pulled him down with her, both of them falling into the waves.

(She did meet the Duchess’s daughter, two months later.)

* * *

They were sixteen, up late at night and running into each other in the headquarters’ kitchen after both skipping dinner for opera. After rummaging in the fridge, they picked out some ingredients other volunteers probably meant for tomorrow’s brunch and mixed all of them together and heating it up.

“I’m a genius chef,” Olaf crowed victoriously as they began eating.

Beatrice stared at him incredulously, “I did all the mixing. _I’m_ the genius chef here.”

“Well I was the one that turned on the stove!” he retorted.

“And succeeded at … what is it, thirteenth try?” Beatrice feigned a deep thinking posture. She considered calling this pose the philosophical food taster.

“I got it at fourth try, learn to count,” Olaf snapped back, stuffing the food into his mouth.

* * *

He was shocked. Not shocked at her capability to pull this off, because he’d seen her do many things. While he relentlessly argued with her about which one of them was better at probably every subject they came across, he knew she had her skills. Not that shocked that she was capable moral-wise either, not after they’d known each other for years and been in this organization together for years.

But he was still shocked, in ways he didn’t know how to explain. Perhaps that despite constantly fighting about everything, he never actually thought this could happen. To him, specifically.

He vowed revenge.

* * *

If he had successfully killed her the night at the masked ball, maybe it would’ve been the beginning of a very different phase of his life that he would now never get to know.

After the masked ball, Olaf started to realize yes he wanted revenge, but he didn’t want it to be fast and simple. He wanted multiple schemes spanning over years, multiple attempts with different methods, he wanted the chase. He didn’t want to just – finish it like it was a task on the checklist. No, this ought to be a masterpiece, an artwork, a lengthy and never-ending opera drama

Ideally, anyway.

So he enacted his various ways of revenge, seeking to hurt her but making sure to never permanently end this game. She hid, she fought back, and she planned schemes of her own to take him down too. They were creative, and never reused the same plan for the second time.

Sometimes it almost felt like a game, just like all those stupid games they would play when they were young. He reminded himself it wasn’t a game, it was revenge.

But still, when he heard of her perishing in a fire that wasn’t set by him – the _audacity_ , really – he felt like she was the one who won.

It made him angrier that he could never even be sure of who did it.

* * *

They were thirteen, sitting on the edge of forest, making up stories about stars in the sky and waiting for the sunrise.

“I wonder what Snicket is doing right now.”

“Derailing trains, maybe. Hey, we should derail a train.”

“Actually … if we’re fast enough we could probably catch the first train leaving town today.”

They both jumped up, and ran towards the train station.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://beatricebidelaire.tumblr.com)


End file.
